The Kings' Sorceror
by Jissai
Summary: "Arthur, I have an age old tale to share with you. Have you ever heard of the prophecy of a great King of Albion and his warlock Emrys?"


Warnings: Time travel, past younger&olderUther/Merlin, implied future Merlin/Arthur. Minor character death.

Thank you for the beta Bailieboro!

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**Merlin POV**

It has been a long time since you have been here; years, two and a half decades, since you have walked on this road.

You can still remember the young Uther's face as you left him and everything behind you. He was so young, as were you. He had a heart of gold, good intentions, yet a little rash.

He had looked heartbroken, completely broken and confused the day you left. He tried to reel back his emotions unaware that they spewed forth like torrents of rain.

But, you knew better than to stay. Destiny's call was too loud to ignore. You had travelled back in time to learn, to train, to prepare. You went from Prince Arthur's manservant, to Prince Uther's sorcerer, all so you could return and become a Pendragon's sorcerer once more.

You breathe in a sigh, taking more heavy steps forward towards Camelot, where such a different man awaits you, an older, still somewhat rash, individual.

Uther is now a dying man.

You imagine how he was when he was older; tempered, powerful, all which had been tamed with age. It has been a long time since you were his son's manservant, before the time travel spell was cast. Even then, the most that you can remember is your palms' sweating, as you fought to calm your nerves when you were near the King. The constant threat of execution for magic lingered in your thoughts.

It is strange, how you had gone from hiding your magic from him, to using it openly to aid his younger self. You had helped build Camelot, and you have returned to rebuild it once more with his only heir.

Your eyes catch the grand city, its people recovering from the sisters' attack. Looking back, you realise that it must have only been a few weeks ago that your younger self had left Camelot.

The gates are just as large as you remember them, a feeling of double déjà vu as your mind remembers them from decades ago, to only a few days past during the same moment.

The feeling intensifies when you stand before the kingdom's proud, prattish regent.

"State your name!" his voice strikes your ears, a sound so foreign, too good to be true. You move your eyes up from the floor, finding a very stoic Arthur sitting upon the throne. There is something bubbling beneath his hard surface, with a hint of longing, grief and confusion. You note the dark, rings under his eyes, and you wonder if his sleepless nights are due to his father's illness or your younger self's recent disappearance.

"Emrys, my lord!" The words flow easily, too comfortable in a world where you should be answering with something else.

His eyes narrow, searching and digging beneath your graying hair and older eyes. "Have we met before, Lord Emrys?"

Yes, prat!

"No, my lord, I am an old friend of your fathers. I have come to be with him in his last hours."

Again, a feeling of déjà vu overwhelms you as you are able to recognize the deep, repressed grief of the Once and Future King. You have always been able to read Arthur, as you had his younger father...all too well.

It takes all of your will to leave the regent behind as you are escorted out of the hall, guided towards your dying friend.

He lies still in the bed. If he were not to have made noise in his sleep, you would have thought him dead.

He looks older, much too old for his age.

A dying man, he truly is...

Your hand reaches forward, lightly grazing his face.

A small spark of life is still there...a small flame flickering, fighting against the wind that is death itself. You can sense the fire inside the king steadily diminishing.

He doesn't have long...

You take a few silent steps towards him, sitting on the edge of the bed. He stirs not, so deep in his slumber, that he could fall off the cliff of life at any moment.

Your fingers touch what remains of his once beautiful hair. Fond memories of sliding your fingers through the silky threads reinforce themselves as a smile finds its way to your lips.

You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, another on his forehead. He stirs but his grey eyes never open to greet you. Like a blade, it strikes your heart to know that you may never see his waking face again.

Time crawls by; the sun is replaced by the moon in the heavens. Gaius had looked at you wearily, digging beneath your skin in hopes of finding a familiar face. You smile in return.

He says nothing as he tends his King, nothing as he leaves.

A sudden whimper from the occupant of the bed catches your ears, and you lie beside him on the mattress, pulling his weak dying body into your arms. You whisper soothing words into his ear, spells, weaving sounds of serenity which calm the mind,. He smiles at them behind closed, sleepy eyes.

"You're here…" the weak words are barely audible.

Your eyes grow wide and your heart almost stops. Everything crashes around you when his flame, his life force goes out, as he slips over the cliff and into the abyss of death. You hold onto him tighter, nestling your nose in his hair, willing him to come back.

He never does...

* * *

><p>The funeral is spectacular. Uther would have wanted nothing more than to go out with a bang; the selfish, self-entitled man.<p>

His equally self-centered son stands before the pyre on which his father's body rests, as a massive crowd of mourners, and onlookers make their final goodbyes. Most of them are nobles, present only to save face; you remember them from working as a young servant in the castle. An invisible peasant can hear many unpleasant, secretive words from the mouths of the rich and powerful.

Arthur is distraught, but he does not show it. Somehow the dam holds, despite the crashing of the waves of life, death and sorrow. His words are crisp; his voice is steady, breaking only twice when he uses his father's given name.

You have no trouble holding back tears. You have none. You have already shed them; the well is dry. A serene calm washes over you, leaving your mind empty and void. You are but a shell standing among a mass of wolves clothed as nobles.

Finally, the pyre is lit; prayers are intoned; the masses dwindle.

Eventually, only two souls remain. You watch Arthur, he hasn't seemed to have even blinked, his blue eyes transfixed on where his father body had lain.

You take one last look towards where Uther had lain, renewing a silent promise to take care of his son, before taking slow steps towards the uncrowned king.

He does not acknowledge you, his face still like stone. You are certain that if you could touch him, his skin would be just as cold.

He is so good at hiding behind a wall, so unlike his father at his age.

"Arthur, your father was a good man..." you begin. His head jerks in your direction, as he is awoken up dragged back into the present by your words. He seems puzzled at the familiar informal tone. As if he realizes that he knows you. "I knew him for a long time, before the Great Purge... before Camelot, even. Your father...years ago...I promised your father that I would protect you. I am here to fulfill that promise."

He appears even more confused, before a shadow of sadness creeps upon his face. You wonder if he is aware that his mask has cracked, and his exhausted state is beginning to show.

"My father had never mentioned you before, Lord Emrys."

You smile slightly, taking another last glance towards the smouldering wood. This doesn't surprise you. He had probably even expunged from the records, once the great purge began, your name, along with his relation to you and your magic.

"No, he wouldn't."

You clasp his shoulder, and bid him to follow you. Your heart is racing, you have waited for this moment for so long, have trained so many years for this day.

With Uther's death, comes the beginning of new life.

"Arthur, I have an age old tale to share with you. Have you ever heard of the prophecy of a great King of Albion and his warlock Emrys?"


End file.
